


After the War

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Community: rarepair_shorts, Family, First Time, Hand Jobs, Harry Potter Next Generation, M/M, Quickies, Quiet Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:38:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A war hero and his son walk into a bar ….</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the War

After the war, Aberforth Dumbledore was saddled with repairs he had to fix, an Order of Merlin he didn't need, and a good deal of attention he assuredly did not want. A heaping combination of all three of these had soon made him very bitter and pickled, which only intensified when he saw Harry Potter—the source of a good many of these—walk into the Hog's Head.

"Potter," he grumbled. "What is it?"

Harry smiled. "Nothing much," he said. "Two butterbeers, please, one for each of us."

"They're in storage," he said. "Give me a few." He clomped around and left.

James fidgeted uneasily under his father's gaze. There were few things he disliked more than being in his father's company in public. Everyone seemed to _stare_.

"Give me a moment," he snapped. He ignored his father's confused gaze and wandered to the back of the small, dark pub, behind a door.

"Ugh," he said when he bumped into—someone. "Will you—"

"Will I what, lad?" a voice boomed. It was that man—Aberforth Dumbledore. The owner of the pub.

His blue eyes narrowed when he saw James. "It's you," he said. "Bloody Potters. Think they can just barge in whenever they want, eh?"

"No!" said James. "That isn't true."

A white, furred eyebrow cocked, as if to say, _Prove it_. But _how_ could he prove it, stuck in this dark, airless room, standing entirely too close to a man who was born two centuries before him? "I—I—" he muttered, trying to stare at something other than Aberforth and trying desperately to ignore his cock, twitching in his pants.

The man looked at him and smirked, bringing around his other arm to grip the back of James's neck and—not kiss him, as James thought fleetingly, but slam it into the wall with a _thud_ until his back made an arc trying to keep his feet on the ground. That hand promptly slid down his neck, down his back, flicked open his fly and— _oh_.

He'd never been touched there before, and he came embarrassingly fast, spurting over that large, calloused hand with a cry.

That glorious hand retreated and wiped its spunk on James's pants. "Do your fly," Aberforth hissed quietly. James tried to obey him, but his arms were spongy from his recent climax, and his fingers wouldn't stop twitching.

Aberforth sighed and did up his fly for him, bending close until James's ear was next to Aberforth's cheek. "You know," Aberforth said quietly, "there are worse men than your father."

"I know," James said.

"Most people would be honored to be compared to him."

"I know."


End file.
